A Pocketbook of Insanity
by Wraithwitch
Summary: Pre-movie. Origin story. Watson's first documented unofficial case after he moves in to Baker Street: the alarming madness of one Sherlock Holmes...
1. Chapter 1

**A Pocket book of Insanity – or ,Watson's First Case**

=Notes=

When one writes a diary there are a great many details one leaves out due to time and space; counter-wise, also details one puts in – safe in the knowledge they are private... So in reading, I ask you to think not only on what is said, but what is not.

How does Watson refer to himself or his flatmate and with what degree of affection, familiarity or contempt? What events does he hurry over and what does he cover in more detail? Are there details of his conduct (or maybe Holmes' ) that Watson is leaving out? (Don't get too smutty, darlings, they've only just met. That's not to say there aren't the beginnings of interest or frisson...)

If anyone reads this and has a strong impression of the unwritten, the days skipped, the events unmentioned... or of the point repeated and too belaboured... tell me.

Because that's _my_ point of all this, and will make it more fun.

xx

**

* * *

=March Tuesday 2nd=**

Feel dog tired. Likely look and smell like a dog too.

I have to pull myself out of this rut and stop kicking about in the gutter of misery.

Came back from Maiwand with limbs and mind in tact - but still my soul seems a sorry shadow of itself. I sound sententious no doubt, but I don't know how else to describe myself. There is a confidence, a brashness and an interest – a verve – for life that was once a staple of my character that I seem to have lost somewhere. I know the limits placed upon me by my health, can catalogue each ache and pain, each shake of a once steady hand (and I do) just as I know my strength is returning to me slowly. On board the _Orontes_ I was still a ghost, jaundiced looking, losing my legs and my lunch at the slightest swell. My shaving mirror shows I am not so haggard now; brown as a tanner and string thin, but no longer Coleridge's life-in-death Mariner, thank god.

(Vanity John – discard it and fill your time with better pursuits.)

See - I coach myself to worthier thoughts daily but cannot quite heed my own advice.

The fact that so many others died, so many bodies destroyed or torn beyond fit repair does nothing but add guilt and vexation to my self pity. I must try harder to find my feet, pick up the threads of my life or else admit I will never be more than an invalid surviving on a veteran's pay of 11shillings/6pence and pity. An empty life and a sorry one as I already gamble too freely with both.

**=March Thursday 4th=**

Ran into Stamford today at the Criterion Bar. (Yes, yes, beyond my pocketbook oh thorny conscience, but I was in a god-awful temper and needed something to cheer me.)

I still find that laugh of Stamford's as insufferable as ever - and his taste in cravats hasn't improved - but he's a good fellow and his humour was a tonic I should take more of. I have need of any friendly face that can bear my company. The last real friends I had are still across the waters… or six feet down in foreign soil... I find I can't bring myself to scan the reports to discover which.

I lunch with him tomorrow. (The Holborn – not as flash, but solid fare and the taps are neither overpriced nor watered.)

Lost seven pounds on the dogs tonight. I needn't add I can scarce afford it. If I ever read this back I will see my own folly writ large in all the words I didn't scribe.

(Perhaps I should set this down plain in case I shy away from the extent of my own recklessness.) John, you're an idiot. (There.)

**=March Friday 5th=**

That was an unexpected turn for the books.

Come eleven I was mired in an absolute fit of misery – too much beer and sleeping badly got me a pain in my head and leg to match – I knew I'd make poor company and was of a mind to leave Stamford hanging. But I persevered; a wash, a shave, and a clean shirt can do wonders. Lucky I did: Stamford set me up with an acquaintance of his who needs someone to share digs with. I'll view the place tomorrow; Marylebone is good going if I've the tin for it.

Stamford's man was an odd chap, not certain what he does or how he's affiliated with Bart's – was all a touch vague. Not quite sure how we'll rub along together either but I'm willing to risk it just to get out of this damn room. I expect better of an establishment of the Strand...

God. I'm sick of the bloody wallpaper.

**=March Monday 8th=**

I write this in 221B Baker Street, new lodgings. (Does that show a reversal in the compass of your fortunes, John? We can but hope...)

The rooms are decent and the rent manageable. I have the upstairs room. It's the larger of the two but next to the bathroom; doubtless the pipes will make a racket. I may regret the extra flight of stairs, but I'm telling myself the exercise will do me good. Time will show if I live to regret such forward thinking. Walls are also not covered in the arsenic-hued artistic vomit of someone who once saw a William Morris print and attempted to replicate it. My soul soars already.

Landlady (Mrs Hudson, although I take it she is a widow as there's neither hide, hair, nor mention of a Mr Hudson) seems pleasant and eminently sensible.

Breakfast is provided, also other meals and tea if given adequate warning and funds towards the dent made in her neatly-stocked larder. She apparently cooks for my flatmate most days (what was that sardonic look about?) so is willing to do so for me also.

**=March Tuesday 9th=**

It would appear that Mrs Hudson and my flatmate are somewhat at odds – over supper at least, which explains her expression. She is requested to cook for him, does so, and he proceeds to ignore the fare. (More fool him – it was a very fine meal.) I have endeared myself to the stalwart Mrs H just by clearing my plate and offering my thanks.

If only more things in life were so easily achieved.

(Dear god John, do shut up before you get hopelessly maudlin, there's a good fellow.)

**=March Thursday 11th=**

Change is as good as a rest – I've had both so why am I dragging my feet?

Two trunks and a small carryall contain my worldly goods – still contain them - I haven't unpacked. Spent most the day lying in bed, staring at the grand panorama of the ceiling.

Noticed the acrid smell of burning coming from the sitting room downstairs. Eventually the smoke grew quite pressing; got out of bed to find out what flatmate had set fire to. (He has a name - Sherlock Holmes – I should get used to it, and him, if I'm to rejoin humanity any time soon.)

Sitting room was like some infernal Turkish bath. Apparently chemical experiment was so engaging SH forgot the toast; looked like a lump of coal on a pitchfork by the time I limped in. He looked damn silly too, standing there like the sorriest and most bemused devil to ever tumble from heaven's grace. Wild hair, wide eyes, shirtsleeves awry, toasting-fork in hand.

"Toast dear boy?" he asked, ridiculously innocent.

I glared, trying not to laugh.

He twirled the toasting fork – "Mm, you're right..." – and stuck the lot in the coal scuttle.

I wonder if this is to be a regular occurrence?

**=March Sunday 14th=**

Life continues. Strove to unpack today if only to prove I'm capable of some action.

Distracted myself half way through when I unearthed my service revolver amidst a jumble of socks and handkerchiefs. Stared at the damn thing remembering the last time I'd used it – shooting a horse of all things.

How I can minister to those who look more like canned salt-beef than anything human without flinching but recoil at a horse's screams I'll never know. (Lucky you chose doctor and not veterinarian, eh John?)

Depressed myself thoroughly and returned to bed.

**=March Wednesday 17th=**

Still not a clue as to what my flatmate does. Whatever it is it pays his rent and a near unceasing supply of shirts – I note he goes through them at a rate of knots.

Saturday's was burnt. Sunday's bloody. Monday's disappeared without trace. Tuesday's was an oddity being a dress-shirt three sizes too big that couldn't possibly be his own. What fate will Wednesday hold for his unfortunate and blameless linen? An acid bath?

(Well done, John. You spend your time observing the ceiling and noting the change in calendar only by your flatmate's unfortunate attire. Sterling.)

**=March Friday 19th=**

A better day today although I'm aware such a statement is akin to getting giddy on laudanum – mask the pain with opiates and tell yourself it's fine...

Got out of the house and took a turn around Regent's park. Exhausted myself in short order but kept on out of sheer bloody-mindedness. Dragged myself to the Hare&Hound to recuperate.

Recuperated more than I ought.

Got it into my head to go down to Borough to the match there – bareknuckle fights once a week. (Queensbury would have a fit no doubt, but I find it absurd some Naval College stiff-neck peer of the realm can insist on turning a brawl into a gentleman's sport. It's still a damn brawl.)

Bet on a tall Irish fellow I'd heard of; won eight pounds. Lost three of it on the fight after and innumerable shillings on beer. Had the sense to leave for Baker Street before I was either cleaned out or insensible. Returned rather the worse for wear – how I managed the stairs is still unclear. SH out - heard him come back before dawn.

What the devil does he get up to?

**=March Saturday 20th=**

Spent today abed with splitting head and fiercely aching leg. I'd say 'that'll teach me' but I doubt very much it will. In better spirits – hot bath helped as well as remembrance of pocketbook fatter by five pounds. Will give some to Mrs H with instructions for Sunday roast.

SH continues to come and go at all hours. To say we have conversations is to elevate signalmen and their code-lights to lengthy and elegant discourse. Still, it's amiable enough those scant times we do find ourselves at table together or before the fire at day's end.

**=March Monday 22nd=**

Am starting to wonder if my flatmate fronts a mind-reading act in a penny gaff somewhere. That is, of course, ridiculous... Penny-gaff shows wouldn't cover the rent. Something more upmarket then. Matinee at the Adelphi – I don't know.

He's the closest thing to walking omnipotence I've ever encountered – whilst at the same time being apparently incapable of wearing matching socks, keeping a cravat straight for five minutes, or not incinerating his toast.

What's getting my back up at the minute is the violin playing. I say 'playing' – he plucks and scrapes at the damn thing like a demented gypsy. The discord isn't loud, but it's persistent, it seeps up on one like a rising tide until all rational thought is impossible and any concentration naught but a golden memory.

Eventually my patience will snap, breaking even the fetters of laziness, and I'll sit up, intent on making SH stop or surrender his violin. At that precise moment, the unceasing musical mess will immediately unravel and reweave into something sonorous, soothing and uplifting at once. (He has quite the flair for Mendelssohn's _Lieder_, as well as a great many other pieces I cannot name.)

And I find my mouth twisted into some expression which feels like half smile and half despair, but all thought of remonstrating with him (with or without violence) has fled, and instead I sigh and allow the music to ease my battered senses.

How does he know the limit of my temper when we are not even in the same room?

The man's some sort of mentalist.


	2. Chapter 2

**=March Tuesday 23rd=**

Won three pounds on the nags, lost four entire on the dogs and was about on par where pugilism was concerned.

The funniest thing is by society's rules, were I a gentleman of the more blue-blooded sort, I'd lose four hundred in a single hand at cards and be welcomed by the well-to-do with open arms. But that's the point, isn't it? It's always a matter of scale. The poor are insane, the rich eccentric. Those who risk pennies are unfortunate, those who risk fortunes are daring. The poor have whores, the rich courtesans. I have a gambling habit, whilst they have a good time...

(Enough, John, be glad you came out near even, don't get self-pitying for god's sake. At least being an 'unfortunate' you can rib your betters in good humour – when the upper echelons do it it's simply scorn.)

**=March Wednesday 24th=**

Had the oddest of conversations with SH.

I ragged him about some flaw in his knowledge – politics – or maybe astrology – the sort of thing I thought was so common-place anyone with the barest education would know it.

He, far from being abashed at his ignorance launched into a tirade about the nature of the mind. How the brain is a store house with limited space and one should tale care to pack it carefully with only information that is of importance else one would run out of room, skull fit to bursting with useless trivialities.

I've never been made to feel so wholly stupid for being able to name the current cabinet's primary ministers or knowing the pole-star.

Odd fellow.

If his conjecture's true (and I rather wish it was) oh the things I would clear from my mind – nail up into tea-chests and throw out - if not to make room then just to be rid of the damn things. I can only hope he was joking; if I take it seriously I'll be banging on his door begging that he teach me the trick of it. His expressions can be so bland upon occasion that I cannot tell if he's in jest or not – and what little I know of his humour is dry enough that he might be ragging me in turn.

**=March Saturday 27th=**

I write little of pleasurable happenstances in here – I should rectify that else if I ever read it back I'll be roundly cursing myself as the most miserable blinder in all England.

My life in truth is comfortable and contains much I am thankful for. I do not make of it all I should, but I don't squander it as I have previously either. I've settled into a routine of sorts; I take regular meals, try to get out and about in the city each day both for my health and strength of mind. (For how can one hope to rejoin humanity in any decent capacity if one locks oneself away from it? Yes, John, you've become quite the philosopher.)

I try also (with general but mixed success) to limit my gambling or the times I fall to ill humour and take myself out to drown my sorrows, as it helps neither my mood nor my constitution. (Besides, I've noted Sorrows have an alarming habit of swimming – front and back crawl, the little bastards.)

I've been thinking on what to do with myself, for although I have two seasons before my pension comes to an end it would be as well to plan. Whilst I miss the action and structure of military life, I hold no delusions on the subject. I know I'm unfit for it... and I am in no hurry to return to the sand, the screams, the blood and the insanity. I've done my bit for the Empire and I fancy that once my nine months recompense is up we shall be well quit of each other, all dues settled, no hard feelings.

What to do?

I could become a clerk-of-work – my arithmetic is sound enough. But such a thing is so dreadfully dull. I could return to medicine: work either as a surgeon's assistant in a hospital or as a general practitioner. Assistant would be easiest to arrange; I have acquaintance's at Bart's who could place me. But I'm not sure I could face the scientific and beneficent butchery required. I've had my fill of mangled limbs, collapsed lungs and the scent of ether, the heavy drip of blood as it runs from the table. I could do it in a pinch if required, my nerves aren't so tattered that I baulk at blood and tissue, but it's not how I wish to fill my days.

General practice then. Starting from scratch will be slow going, building up clients. Not to mention finding rooms for a practice and gathering supplies. I should husband my resources so I have the capital to start...

(Tomorrow, says the whisper of my lesser self, let it wait 'til tomorrow.)

**=March Monday 29th=**

I've not mentioned previously, but my flatmate has an ever increasing amount of post (most of which he distains to open). Also a remarkable number of visitors he receives at all hours.

(John, in comparison to you a hermit would have a lot of social calls.)

There's a short fellow in a bowler and heavy coat who's rather gruffly self important; he was introduced to me in passing as Mr. Lestrade. He came by three or four times in the past week. Can't say I care for him, he's cagey, ambitious and ferrity-looking – men like that never pay attention to whom their boots trample.

On Tuesday morning a young woman arrived (I'm sure she's come before) evidently distressed but keeping herself admirably composed. She was fashionably dressed, unaccompanied, and stayed for an hour or more.

Thursday afternoon brought a grey-headed, hawk of a man who reminded me of the Jewish silversmiths in Bethnal Green – he was in a near frenzy about something. Not ten minutes after, a grubby but imperious dark-haired woman followed, talking to herself in a foreign tongue.

Saturday brought a very respectable looking old white-haired gentleman who had an interview with SH – given the state of the sitting room I would have been embarrassed to admit him, but I don't believe 'embarrassment' is in the fellow's repertoire.

Any time I'm in residence when these visitors call, SH requests the use of the sitting room, undisturbed. He asks quite politely too, by which I must conclude it's important to him. (He has charmingly polished manners; he just usually leaves them behind, like a set of diamond shirt-studs too costly for everyday.) "Sorry for the inconvenience old chap," he calls as I head upstairs, "this won't take long."

As an aside note, I'm pleased he doesn't ask 'do you mind?'. Most people would, forcing one to reply 'no, no, quite all right' because not only do they have to put you to trouble but you have to like it too.

These visitors are his clients, although what they employ him to do is still inscrutable. It occurs to me that Mrs H might know, but asking her seems rather underhand.

(Come along John, you do little enough with yourself as it is. Are you really so poor a man that you can't unravel the question of your flatmate's profession? Hm. Or perhaps I should council myself thus: Damn it all, John, has your life come to such that the most constructive thing you can find to do with yourself is puzzle out what your flatmate does for a living? ...Both leave a sour taste in the mouth, and still the mystery remains.)

**=March Tuesday 30th=**

Article in the Gazette called _The Book of Life_ – I read it just to satisfy myself the title was as ridiculously pretentious as I feared. (It was one of those rare occasions both SH and I were at the table together, I wasn't ignoring him, but I needed a pot of coffee before I could manage even the most rudimentary of conversations.) The article attempted to show how much an observant man might learn by examining all that came his way – a premise I have no quarrel with. It was the amount the author claimed could be learnt - and with such iron-clad certainty! - as if he was proving Euclid, not rickety points of reasoning.

I accept that some trades and walks of life leave their mark upon a man. But to believe that the life of every man may be mapped by his fingernails and shirtcuffs is laughable – and laugh I did. "That's a bit bloody rich!"

"What is?"

I waved the magazine at him and held forth about the impracticality of the article's argument. "I'd like to see the author travel third class on the Metropolitan and give the trades of his fellow passengers."

"No one takes the Metropolitan. It goes nowhere anyone has a use for."

"South to Waterloo then. I'd lay a thousand to one he'd still be foxed at Elephant and Castle."

"How many are in the carriage?" His fingers were steepled, the question lazy but pointed.

"What? Oh, a dozen say."

"Done! Trafalgar Square - I'd have them all pegged - Charing Cross at the latest. Provided one started here of course..." He smiled.

Something in his expression made me look at the article again. _Sheridan Hope_. I sighed at my own flat-footedness (although how the devil was I meant to know?) "You wrote the article."

His smile was brighter, brimful of humour. "See old boy? You're getting the hang of it already. You can write me a cheque..."

I snorted in a show of light contempt, but I can't help but think (yes, despite my skepticism) that he would have them all down by Trafalgar Square too.

**=April Friday 2nd=**

Stamford invited me to dinner, he and a few of his fellows are going out on the town. This is no doubt a transparent excuse to discover how things are going at Baker Street, but I cannot begrudge him the curiosity.

My leg is stronger these days. Both the exercise and the more clement weather have worked in tandem to improve it immensely. It's still stiff, which given the irreparable muscle damage will never fully fade, but I find it able to bear my weight with more certainty and allow me to walk with more speed and ease than I have been previously. It will never be quite 'good-as-new' but I fancy with work and care it will serve me better than I'd dared hope – a heartening thought indeed.

**=April Saturday 3rd=**

I wonder if there is a quantity theory of good luck or tragedy, some overarching balance that claims any small victory must spell misfortune for someone else, even if the events are entirely unconnected. May every new star ascend only as another falls? I hope not. My world continues to better itself by degrees; SH's slips into decline.

Dinner with Stamford was somehow both more and less than I expected of it. His cronies were well enough and we made a fine evening of it. I think however I am becoming far too used to SH's particular brand of wit and unpredictability to view all else in any light other than 'staid'. He's a skerrik of vinegar, no mistake... but then I've always liked both pickles and lemon sherbert, so perhaps I shouldn't be so very surprised.

Hadn't seen SH for a few days, although empty tea cups, various receptacles in service as ashtrays and ever more-chaotic chemistry experiments told me he had passed through at some point. Came in from dinner to find him studiously writing something on his shirt-cuff and remonstrating with his own thoughts. I offered him the use of a notebook.

Without looking up or ceasing his ruination of yet another shirt he answered – although I'm still unable to make head or tail of what he said. The rhythm of his words were such as to make up a sentence, some phrases and sub-clauses were even recognisable, but the rest was utterly impenetrable, somewhere between a code and glossolalia. Eventually when he had run out of shirtcuff and snapped the nib of his pen on the back of his hand he took to pacing – still talking all the while. As he moved about his words became clearer until linguistically (if not intellectually) he was making sense. His tirade was about mould. That it was hindering his work and doing harm to his person was all I could really glean for certain.

Since all this was only marginally stranger than his usual behaviour, I waited to see what would come of it. Perhaps he'd discovered a new passion for the lost tribal cultures of Zanzibar or some such. Wouldn't put it past him...

At length he almost strode right into me, which brought him up short. "Who the devil are you?"

"Very funny," I said dryly. "I know you're clearly having a time of it but there's no need to take it out on me."

Looks of complete blankness, cunning, and feigned recognition passed across his face in swift succession. "No. Well. I'm very tired," he hedged.

"Want a drink of something? You look done in. I've some decent brandy if..."

An almost comically suspicious expression.

"No, eminently sensible of you, it might be mouldy," I said facetiously. I wasn't in the mood to allow SH's sleep-deprived fancies to ruin my evening. "Well, I'm to bed. You should do the same."

He trailed me to the doorway and stood there, watching after me with confusion and thinly veiled hostility until I'd closed the door of my room.

Perhaps the _Lancet _has some article on the effects of over-stimulation and lack of rest on the nervous functions of the brain?


	3. Chapter 3

**=April Thursday 8th=**

I haven't written here because things have been quiet.

I've been at the British Library and St Bart's, trying (and succeeding) to pique my mind to pursuits both medical and intellectual. I had it drummed into me by Bell that if one wasn't a doctor who stayed abreast of new research and possibilities, then one wasn't worthy of the title. I've been thinking of him quite a bit over the past week – he'd shake his head in irritation at my inactivity. ('Think! John Watson - how do you expect your mind to sharpen itself if you provide it nothing to be whetted against?') It vexed him that it took so much for me to overcome my natural inertia before I became energized and assiduous. I don't know why but it's always been so; I'm the laziest fellow in London until I make the first step, and then I'm a paragon of diligence. It's taken me months to drag myself to the Stacks, but now I have I devour publications and the _Lancet_ like a student coming up to Finals.

To my relief SH appears less singular. (Or to clarify, he appears to be running himself ragged over some point of work for a client – Miss Isabelle Charles, I believe. Should I meet her I will not be responsible for my language. It's all very well for her to flounce in here and engage SH in whatever affair it is, but the work is clearly taking a fierce toll on the man and it is I – not she – who must deal with it. He's despondent and terse by turns, constantly aligning and realigning the contents of the sitting room as if everything teeters on a precipice and is danger of falling if not placed just so. Mrs H must bear the brunt of his temper should she dare to bring in tea... then again, that's lamentably usual. Were she to set a jar and order he place a shilling in it each time he is uncivil, he'd ruin himself within the week.)

I haven't spoken to him of the mould/amnesiac incident, not out of manners but because from _his_ manner I couldn't swear he has any proper recollection of it. A bad night perhaps – far be it for me to comment on those, I've had my share.

**=April Friday 9th=**

That was... disturbing.

We were in the sitting room. I'd been reading, SH had been tinkering with his endless and indeterminable chemistry experiments before becoming agitated. He spent some time walking around the room in strange circles, like a distressed homing pigeon. After ricocheting off a chair he looked over the room and called out, "Victor? Victor! For god's sake... Victor?"

"Who the devil are you calling for? Have you procured a dog or a cat or something?"

He seemed to flounder, rather like a sleepwalker kicked into wakefulness. "I – I thought... I wanted... wanted..." He sounded appallingly lost.

"What do you want?"

"Yes, yes," he said with relief.

"That was a question!"

"Ah, that's good then," he laughed.

I wondered if he was doing it wilfully. My patience ended. "What are you going on about?"

Glare, snarl: "I don't _want_ the adverbs!"

That both foxed and silenced me. He went back to barking his shins on tables, I to worrying. Time passed. The fire burnt low, SH threw various things on it, only one of which was coal. (But none of which were mine or violently combustible; one must be thankful for small mercies.)

"Is that serious?" he suddenly demanded of me.

"Is what serious?"

"Your – your-" he gestured and stuttered something incomprehensible, a verbal twitch that sounded like 'vis-meh-phasia'.

At this point I'd decided he was either having a grand joke at my expense or he was lushed on opium – it was too ridiculous otherwise. Chasing the dragon would explain his fugue the other night as well. "Yes," I answered shortly and with leaden sarcasm, "My vismehphasia is _extremely_ serious."

Eyes widened. "Right. Yes... Right." Pause. "I didn't mean the moths, obviously," he muttered.

"Obviously." I buried myself in my book.

He returned to his crooked circuits of the room, always giving the bookcase as wide a berth as he was able, occasionally trying to walk through the furniture. At length he announced: "I must leave now – I need to get home, wouldn't do to wake the house..."

"You live here."

He made a face, amused and mildly contemptuous. "Don't be absurd."

That irritated me – the whole thing was farcical. "If it's so untenable, why do you stay here?"

"Stay?"

"Yes..."

"What?" he asked suddenly as if I'd been speaking Dutch.

"This is home!"

He looked perplexed at my outburst. "Of course it is, old boy."

The worst of it all was, I'd had this conversation with him four times already.

**=April Saturday 10th=**

I write this in the sitting room after a pot of coffee that contained at least half a pound of sugar. I believe I'm now sufficiently recovered.

I do myself no flattery when I say I saved Holmes' life this morning.

I awoke at six to the sound of heated and quite anguished discussion coming from the bathroom. Once awake enough to distinguish I wasn't dreaming, put on dressing gown and went to investigate. Bathroom utter sty – bath filled with cold water and mess of drowned books and note paper, all quite ruined. Window was open; SH - in inkstained clothes, dripping wet crown to toe - was sitting on the outside ledge. He had his violin bow and was studiously attempting to play a half charred log. Who or what he was conversing with I couldn't say, but it sounded like an argument in which he was coming off the worse.

Shivering fits, cold sweats, headaches and nausea are the more usual withdrawal signs of opiate usage, not this. I had the first crawling sensation of fear that I'd misjudged the situation – consequences of which could be mortal.

I approached, struggling for nonchalance and enquired after the view.

"I wish you wouldn't _do_ that! I've asked you numerous times..."

"Do what?"

"It's insufferable I tell you! Must I bear their sabotage and your mockery?"

"My...? _Sabotage?"_

Anxiously: "They're getting to you too? I had no idea it had spread that far! You must drown them – I've studied the situation - drown them all – the true ones will know how to swim, it's how to test their mettle you see."

"Test their mettle?"

"Oh yes, that will do very nicely!" (Spat with utmost chagrin as if I'd insulted him.)

The conversation continued in this vein and was as unfathomable as it was mentally exhausting. His moods ran pell-mell through every emotion with such speed it was impossible to keep up. I kept talking in the hope of getting to the root of the issue and so know how best to coax him back inside.

As far as I could understand, many popular books had been printed with a code inherent in their text which when read, produced music in the brain. (Master of this villainy was Thomas Carlyle, which accounted for his 'unlikely and all-pervasive prevalence' .) This siren song had the power to steal thoughts or compel those effected to the most unlikely of acts unless countered by the correct musical antidote. His violin however had been infected, so he had resorted to a purer and unsullied instrument, ie, the kindling. He'd been submerged in the bath to distort the malicious resonances, which is why he then drowned the books – sauce for the goose works for the gander and all that. At dawn the books had rallied and he had retreated to the window ledge intent upon perfecting his musical cure or, with his last free thoughts, dashing their plans and his brains upon the ground below.

I confess although panic had swiftly erased all vestiges of sleep from me, I had no idea how to persuade him out of his nightmare, and was entertaining the drastic idea of a rugby tackle to haul him in. That probably would have sent us both out of the window; I am supremely grateful that fate took a hand.

His vitriolic mania had shifted to melancholy as the stress and the cold took their toll. He confessed to being tired, at his wit's end, having had many sleepless nights – scared the life out of me as his eyes closed and he swayed forward, before tilting left and leaning heavily against the window sash. Then his eyes opened in amazement and the most pitiful expression of hope. "They're afraid – they're growing silent – listen!... Good god, your presence un-strings them! You possess a natural counter-harmony."

Never have I been looked at with such awe. (And given the circumstances I hope never to be so again.)

Persuading SH in was – whilst not easy – feasible, and I even managed to wrap him in a blanket as he hung against my shoulder. He was by this stage in a state of near full nervous collapse and I insisted he go to bed immediately. It is perhaps a testament to the perversities of my flatmate's character that even whilst mostly out of his head he bartered against me to an inconvenient compromise.

My victory: he is fast asleep, nested in blankets.

His victory: in my room. Under my bed. (Something to do with harmonics and Carlyle again – I was beyond caring and he almost beyond standing.)

All in all it was far too harrowing an experience to have before breakfast.

**=April Sunday 11th=**

SH stayed asleep in my room.

This should have been a further fortuitous kick to my habits as it meant I was up and about; but I felt strongly that leaving him completely unattended was a poor idea, having no guarantee that his delusions had passed.

Being both house-bound and banished from my room I spent my time tidying the sitting room. Have re-ordered the shelves so there's space both for my medical texts and the peculiar scientific and eclectic tomes SH has in his possession. (Halfway through it occurred that he might drown my books too... but if he is really of a notion that _Gray's_ is trying to unhinge him I must confess in my first year I shared the same opinion, so perhaps it is poetic justice.)

Checked on him in the evening at ten – there's been not even a floorboard creak from upstairs all day. He's still deeply asleep.

Took blankets from the linen cupboard and made a bed for myself on the chaise.

**=April Monday 12th=**

Slept tolerably well considering.

SH appeared at nine, looking a lot better than he had and seemingly in possession of his full faculties. His fingers didn't twitch to themselves, his head didn't tilt to catch imaginary sounds, eyes no longer wild – although his appearance was still somewhat shambolic.

I'd thought he'd be discomforted by my witnessing of his episode – I'd be mortified – but as previously mentioned, I'm not convinced SH has the capacity for embarrassment.

His manner held a note of apology and thanks – a tacit acknowledgement of my aid in the matter. He commented he'd slept well and enquired if I had; but the look that accompanied the words was more eloquent by far. In a single expression it seemed to me he accepted his past behaviour with a self-mocking sort of ruefulness, regretted that I had been troubled by it and gave his best assurances that it would not happen again.

(Perhaps he really is on the stage – thespians tend to be an eccentric lot – and he's got the skill for it I wager. That wouldn't explain his clients though...)

He invited me to dinner at the Royale, his treat.

Dinner was surprisingly enjoyable. Worrisome that it should take a bout of madness before we spent any real time together; but if the derangement has ceased and the company continues, I cannot find myself sorry for it.

Our conversation was how I imagine a sailship tacks to catch the wind: our interests appeared hopelessly disparate, but somehow we always crossed and found a point of mutual ground with little effort.

We took our time, lingering over a brandy, at ease in each other's company. (Perhaps I should send Stamford a brash neck-tie with my compliments?)


	4. Chapter 4

**=April Tuesday 13th=**

I have just committed my flatmate to Parkhouse Asylum.

I need a stiff drink.

=April Wednesday 14th=

I wasn't up to writing about it yesterday.

Perhaps this is why I never manage to keep a daybook for very long: either I bore myself with the trivialities of my life and drop the thing in disgust, or the moment anything worthy of comment transpires it's usually seeped in tragedy and my thoughts fade into a miserable reverence at how bleak this world can be.

It was why I stopped writing in Afghanistan. At first I'd recorded my thoughts along with happenstances of import. (Notes on the country, the people, the soldiers posted, and the living hell we all made for ourselves there in the name of Empire, or independence or whatever the deuce - scarcely damn mattered in the end, did it? It all boiled down to blood and sand and who was the last man standing.)

I felt – at the time - such things ought to be written. But all too soon I felt not like a stalwart chronicler but like a bloody-beaked vulture, pecking over the carcass of everyone's agony. I only picked up book and pencil in that blasted hotel so I had an excuse for why I was still abed.

(No, John, of course you're not wasting away in bed, you're writing. An epic, no doubt. Opinions and views worthy of Ruskin himself). Oh, and to distract me from the wallpaper... Perhaps all in all a pretty piece of Whitechapel petticoat would have worked just as well?

I'm procrastinating.

It would seem I'm still not up to writing about what transpired with Holmes.


	5. Chapter 5

**=April Thursday 15th=**

I've written a fair amount about my flatmate here for two reasons. Firstly my life is currently so hum-drum that a broken coffeepot, a new pack of tobacco, or ruckus over a cab in the street rates as sensational news. Secondly, Holmes is quite fascinating. He's intelligent, peculiar, startling, insouciant about a good deal he shouldn't be, entertaining, and irritating like nothing I've ever known – I should doubtless make note of him even were my social calendar full and my life fit to bursting. He's the sort of fellow one mentions.

Despite living with him and his antics (which yes, have recently included nonsensical rants and sitting on window ledges) I really – I didn't think that he – I - I was actually horrified by what transpired.

(And I'm still procrastinating. Get on with it, John. The memory and record of such cannot cause more harm than the event itself.)

I had gone out to Kensington to be fitted for a new suit; I had the tin for Jermyn St, but I'm trying to drop expensive habits, not start them. I've been making do with clothes both ill-fitting and poor, I rather hoped that a decent wardrobe might inspire me to further order my life.

On my way back I stopped in at Lock & Co – that was certainly a luxury, but I can't regret the Cambridge-styled bowler I left with. It is smart, serviceable and rakish, all depending on the angle.

I returned to Baker Street in the early afternoon, a little tired but in fine humour... until I noticed the blood on the stairs. There wasn't much of it, but the spots showed crimson-bright atop the dark-polished wood of the treads, a pattern of stains leading upwards. There was a small puddle on the landing outside the sitting room. I remember thinking that Mrs H would have a fit – she has enough to do without soaking out bloodstains. I called for Holmes, wishing to know what happened so when our landlady's ire fell upon us we could be united in our defence.

There was a muffled crash from his room. I left my purchases and made a nuisance of myself at his door. There was silence followed by erratic sounds suggesting someone making their way across the room via every obstacle possible. At last the door opened to show a sliver of ashen face, a shock of dark hair and a single wide and panicked eye. We stared at each other in silence; he taut, I expectant.

"There's blood on the stairs – is everything all right?"

"Capital. You can tell such to the Literati and their Shivering Jemmy reprobates – Tilly Matthews didn't know the half of it." He was imperious – distracted – broken. But what terrified me, terrifies me still every time I call it to mind, was when he looked at me.

Scientifically, the pupil of the eye is simply a hole, the circumference of which changes as dictated by the muscles of the iris, allowing more or less light to filter through the cornea lens onto the film of the retina. Spiritually, the eye contains a light and character all of its own, linked closely to the owner's nature – windows of the soul and all that. I've seen the eyes of the living and the eyes of the dead, watched as one made the transition to the other, and there is a marked difference. Trite as it sounds there is a light, an anima, present in the eyes of the living, a flame which gutters and dies with their last breath – and one is able to observe it do so.

I have seen eyes of all different hues and character, but I have never seen one living with the stare of the dead. There is a flatness to such a stare, a dull void where a spark should be: the pupil no longer a soul-window, just a hole for light to pass through unacknowledged. That was how Holmes' eyes appeared: too wide, too empty - too dead. I recoiled.

He turned from the door with a ragged wave of his arm; his movements made me think of faulty clockwork, of tangled puppets. It was as if whatever made him a person had fled, and there was just a body left, grossly animate, perversely alive. "They did for him in the end you know - Matthews..." His voice matched the rest of him, raw, flat, unreal. As he retreated further into the room I saw what the door had masked: blood, thick ribbons of it. "Of course the air-loom was a barely competent prototype – clumsy, clumsy..." He gestured as he spoke and I heard the vermillion storm of droplets leave his body and fall heavily to the floor. His arm was a mess. "But they've had time to refine everything. It's devilishly smart now..." With that he swayed and crumpled ponderously to the floor.

I don't have the will to relate in narrative detail all that happened after. I had in my rooms a small medico's field kit from my stint in Maiwand and I lost no time in using it. Holmes had caught the interosseous vein of his left arm in a single decisive straight-razor slice. He was fortunate not to have damaged the muscles nor to have severed the nerves. The cut was done with almost clinical precision – a fact that didn't hearten me in the least. It required seven stitches. He remained semi-conscious and far from lucid throughout. As I worked he explained how and why he had done such a thing. (I don't have the heart to set it all down, it was more about siren songs, Thomas Carlyle, the infection of art in the blood and the perfection of the air-loom machine into a printing press that produced diabolical texts.) He also assured me he would behave so again if need be – he had no fear of death, only of the artistic pathogens and of the soul-stealing books. If his mind could not be his and his alone, it would better be destroyed.

It was at that point I had to admit to myself Holmes wasn't suffering from some temporary malady, but of a full and irrefutable disintegration of reason – _dementia praeco_x most likely.

I sat with him all night – he had a mortal fear of my leaving his side – and tried to persuade him to seek aid and a rest-cure. Even in madness he was shrewd enough to know damn well I meant an asylum.

I am no great advocate of asylums. They fulfil a much needed function, but do so badly and with ill-grace. Still, even I recognise my nerves and knowledge are not up to the strain of becoming Holmes' watcher, carer and keeper when a minute's absence may prove his destruction.

We argued. Funny how his thoughts still seemed to run in lines of logic even if the reason was rotten to the core. I managed to persuade him his salvation and triumph over his persecutors lay in seeking help from those who knew best about such things. (A thousand blessings upon Professor Ormond Sacker, a tyrannical but impassioned teacher of philosophy and public speaking at school. I've never needed his lessons before but by god did I need them then.)

He agreed at last to go to Parkhouse, a privately run hospital in Richmond by the river, headed by Doctor Edmond Tobias, someone Holmes had met previously and had the highest confidence in. (I'd not heard of the man, even with my recent forays to the Library I'm hopelessly out of date. He, like I, was apparently a natural antidote to the siren songs. Marvellous.)

He swore to go if I would take him, although it was more begging than oath as he clung at my wrists, dead eyes struggling for focus, thoughts and words hanging on to lucidity by the fingernails. It was a long night and an uncomfortable one, holed up in a corner beside the wardrobe. Holmes slept fitfully and only when exhaustion quite undid him. In the meantime he talked, telling me about the air-loom, the artistic pathogen, chromatic and anti-etherical scales, James Tilly Matthews (18th century Bedlamite) and more besides, his injured arm held protectively against his chest, the other clutched firmly around mine as if I was a spar of wood that might save him from drowning.

I promised to make all the necessary arrangements on the morrow.

I've always been a man of my word.

The journey to Richmond was uneventful. I telegrammed ahead first thing and we travelled by train in the early afternoon after I'd done my best to ensure he'd eaten something, his arm was bandaged and he looked half-way presentable. (I leant him my blue waistcoat, his grey one was 'riddled with contagion' that could not be brushed out as it was 'soaked in the weave'.)

Holmes was... biddable, which if I hadn't enough evidence already showed me quite how unwell he was. How many times had I wished in exasperation that my flatmate might be a little less impossible, a little more peaceable? Sitting in the carriage compartment with him so uncommonly neat and still beside me, I had cause to bitterly regret such wishes and acknowledge I had become not only accustomed but fond of Holmes' personal idiom and all the brash chaos it entailed. It was a short walk across the Green to the river; Parkhouse was on the other bank with generous grounds and a clear view of the Thames. In different circumstances I would have found it pleasant.

I have little experience of asylums (Hogarth's _Rake's Progress_ always comes to mind), but my impression of Parkhouse was of a calm, secure, well run country house, and I was thankful for it.

We were greeted personally by Dr Tobias, who did his best to extend every courtesy. He is young for his position, perhaps four years my senior, but was quick enough to grasp facts and alight upon detail. He perceived that I was also a medical man, and, from the restless and particular movements of his fingers that Holmes played an instrument.

I have never felt so discomfited as I did sitting in the Superintendent's study, Holmes next to me twitching and fretting imaginary scales upon the arm of the chair, whilst I was forced to explain all that had transpired. When one talks over the head of a fellow, one expects a sharp reprimand – it's frankly disturbing to speak so candidly of a fellow and have him appear insensible to it; Holmes' attention was for the ceiling, his waistcoat buttons, anti-etherical scales and occasional wary glances at the doctor's library.

The papers were signed within the hour; Holmes was admitted under the name 'Sheridan Hope', something he had insisted upon the previous night to 'outwit the air-loom'. I obliged, not to pander to his delusions but because it would keep his own name off the registers of a madhouse; when he recovers I fancy it might be a kindness he'll thank me for.

But then, as now, I feel far from kind.


	6. Chapter 6

**=April Friday 16th=**

I find myself quite unnaturally out of sorts. (John, dear god man, you do nothing but complain in this bloody daybook; you're a veritable catalogue of inclement moods. What is it today? Irritation? Bleakness? Self loathing? Misanthropy? Keep this up and you'll be in need of a thesaurus just to find another phrase for 'needlessly morose bastard'... And I notice your language has got worse – swearing is not an attractive trait... Oh, shut up.)

And so my thoughts chase one another, mocking me each in their turn because I've spent far too long feeling sorry for myself and now I have something truly to feel sorry for it sounds like another of my endless complaints. It's not self pity that ails me, however. It's concern for Holmes. My shoulders have been hunched ever since I left him at Parkhouse, my stomach knotted so tight that eating anything is like trying to consume a lump of coal.

I have done things in the name of healing patients that do not immediately appear a kindness. Those who suffer severe pneumonia, for example, cannot be given morphine because it arrests the natural capacity of the lungs and so increases the risk of suffocation. Similarly, although lying down is more comfortable for the afflicted, in severe cases they must be made to sit least they drown. Such practices are not a mercy, but they do work towards a cure. The removal of a shattered limb before gangrene can set in, the lancing of a boil; all these practices and more have I done. They involve a deal of agony and unpleasantness, but I have never felt any doubt that what I am doing is in the best interest of the one I'm trying to heal. Even in battle when supplies were few, mistakes plentiful and time short, I never entertained doubts about what I did. (Not medically at any rate. I had cause to wonder why we were there in the first place but I knew exactly what my personal cause and purpose were – the Hippocratic oath makes it simple enough.) That I had done my best – that it was all for the best – I knew.

Now I do not entertain doubts – they plague me, unceasing and uninvited, not as single scouts but as battalions.

How will Holmes fare in an asylum?

I've not known him for long, but everything suggests he is a man who takes a very keen interest in the world and is irrefutably his own master in all matters and aspects of his life. One does not win arguments against Sherlock Holmes, that much I have learnt. He disapproves of compromise (his own at any rate) seeing it as some sort of intellectual failing. He is always correct, or at least he is always correct on points that are important, as well as a great many which are not. If he concedes anything he does so with a graciousness that leaves one with the strongest impression that one has been granted a great favour – and he only did so because it's unseemly for a fellow to be correct every single time.

How will he cope, locked away from the world, unable to test and tinker with it as he pleases? Unable to partake in or scorn meals as he chooses? Unable to play his violin – oh god – oh god one might as well insist he goes about with his eyes closed or his hands bound – he is forever playing the damn thing, fretting at it, holding it, projecting his thoughts through its voice...

What have I done?

And what on earth will it do to him – to his character, let alone his pride – to have all autonomy taken from him? Dear god.

My fear is not that Parkhouse will be unable to cure Holmes. Quite the opposite. My greatest fear by far is that Parkhouse will cure him – breaking all that he is in the process.

Given the choice I would rather he was deranged and fixated upon imaginary enemies, yes, even with bouts of self destruction thrown into the mix. Better that than have him an automaton, a sorry meek creature. Dull and shackled in thought, his certainty, creativity and volatility – crushed.

I am unforgivably selfish for wishing such, I'm well aware. I ought to wish for the restoration of his reason, whatever the cost. But I cannot.

If Parkhouse destroys him I don't think I will ever be able to forgive myself.

**=April Saturday 17th=**

He should come with aposematic markings like a tropical snake so one knows to keep away... Damn.

I'm entertaining the thought of sending Stanford a box of noxious slurry instead of my thanks.

He warned me – yes he bloody warned me, warned me of messy habits and irregular hours, mercurial moods and a standoffish personality. _Fine._ And it was fine. He didn't bloody warn me about _this_...

(See John, that's the second nib you've broken.)

I can't believe he...

(Third nib.)

I've never known anyone who was so...

(Fourth nib. Perhaps you should continue in pencil?)

He doesn't even have to be present to ruin my morning – he disorders my life and my thoughts from afar - and with equal indifference, I wager. The utter gall of the man. I – I have no words for the conflicting emotions he's caused to rip through me – although it's perfectly plain that towering apoplexy wins out overall. My nerves should not have to deal with this.

Mrs H handed a sealed missive to me with the breakfast tray, explaining she'd been instructed to give it to me today although it had been in her keeping since the 2nd. The penmanship was strong, sharp and familiar enough...

_Watson,_

_Hate to be an imposition, but if you could bring a clean shirt and my pipe to Parkhouse tomorrow I'd be much obliged – I'm likely to be in sore need of both. Lestrade should be on hand, but the man has a lamentable habit of being late. I would feel in greater confidence about the situation if you were present, since you'll have been the one who signed my papers – the weight of medical opinion, etc etc._

_To elucidate: if I have recently ranted wildly about mould, tried to throw myself from window ledges, played my violin (or a stick, or slipper) abominably whilst spouting rubbish about anti-etherical scales (believe me that would have been as painful for me as for you), claimed Thomas Carlyle wished to murder me via musical brain control, and done some small injury to myself that produced an alarming amount of blood without lasting harm... Then all was to plan and I am still in full command of my faculties. _

_If I did something else that had you sign my papers, then regretfully I'm likely insane and you'll have to find next month's rent yourself. _

_Yours, _

_S-H._

I'm of half a mind to travel to Surrey this minute and demand to know what the devil he thinks he's playing at, and half a mind not to go at all – let him go hang.

Mrs H has a letter she's to deliver to Mr Lestrade – Detective Lestrade of the Yard that is. She is bearing this entire situation with more equanimity than I – but then hers wasn't the pen that signed away his freedom. Also it would appear she's better informed than I – she at least has known from the first that her more obstreperous lodger is a consulting detective with a flare for the dramatic.

Beyond the glaringly obvious I've no conception of what a consulting detective is. Given the circumstance I must conclude it is a personage who quite convincingly plays at being insane to get himself committed to an asylum before summoning his flatmate and the Yard to extricate himself.

**=April Sunday 18th=**

Mrs H is a positive mine of information.

The last time Miss Isabelle Charles visited, she was so distrait that Mrs Hudson had her sit downstairs in the parlour and take a pot of tea before she left. And because our Landlady is sensible, presentable, experienced, personable and female, out poured all the woes of this young woman straight into her lap.

Miss Charles has a father of infirm health and antique years. She also has an elder sister, Amelia, who has recently married the dashing Renton Priestly (he sounds a bloody cad by name alone – but given the circumstances I'm disinclined to be charitable.)

The newlyweds went off to honeymoon in Tintagel for two weeks; upon their return Miss Charles and her father were informed that Mrs Amelia Priestly had become hopelessly deranged and had been committed to a private asylum – Parkhouse. Miss Charles had grave concerns that her sister had been confined under false pretences so that Renton Priestly could gain the (sizable) inheritance due to Amelia when their father died. Hence she employed SH to investigate.

Looking at what I've just written it reads like a tale fit only for the pages of some sensationalist penny-dreadful, but I suppose there are always those who will stoop to such measures through greed. So. Foul play suspected both by Priestly and I should imagine the superintendent of Parkhouse, Dr. Tobias. I found him sharply turned out, confident, capable – traits which in themselves suggest neither innocence nor a lack of it. Perhaps he is guilty of nothing more than being just as successful as I in telling the firm from the infirm from the _bloody devious_ of mind?

I write all this on the train, heading west to the green and Royal Borough of Richmond.

Once I have sprung Holmes from his incarceration, I will assuredly kill him.

I _still_ can't countenance he did that.

The scale of the deception, the sheer craft of it beggars belief. He sat on a window ledge, soaked to the skin, and gave every indication of being primed to throw himself off. He talked utter gibberish – intricate, broken, horrible babble. He went without sleep, played the part of an intelligence crumbling to ruin better than Hamlet ever did – he cut open his own bloody arm for god's sake!

And all so I would commit him. Travel to Parkhouse, discuss the situation with Dr Tobias, sign his papers. For a case. Surely there must have been a simpler way of getting the information he desired?

He's _unspeakable._..


	7. Chapter 7

**=April Monday 19th=**

A tardy record of yesterday's drama.

Visiting hours were eleven until three, and since Holmes' note had not been very explicit as to the precise timing of my arrival I thought early would be better than late. Not that I had any notion of what he was up to, nor how he was so certain he'd have his evidence by now. (I suppose he thought after a week he'd either obtain the proof he needed or have to admit defeat.) With this in mind I did my utmost to look professional and (despite the best efforts of the Southern and District Railways) arrive at eleven.

Things proceeded quite apace once I reached Parkhouse.

I'd been welcomed, led into the parlour, and was about to surrender my hat and coat when an almighty hue and cry was sounded from above. It was Holmes (naturally), running barefoot down the main staircase with two broad-shouldered but less-nimble orderlies in laboured pursuit. Whilst running his gaze was given to pulling out the correct key from a chain he held – although how he spared the attention for them whilst careering down a flight of stairs and not breaking his neck I couldn't imagine. He leapt the last few steps and pushed forward with renewed momentum before spying me as he traversed the hall. He skidded, spinning to a brief stop.

"No Lestrade?" he asked, eyebrows quirking. He was pale, dishevelled - eyes and cheeks fever-bright - poised: all potential energy a beat away from freefalling into kinetic again. He looked in fact, the perfect picture of a maniac.

I opened my mouth to say a great many things (none of which were the answer to his question.)

"Late again!" A look across his shoulder at his approaching adversaries. The sort of glance of a fox who knows that despite the hounds' gross stupidity, base numbers and not cunning may prove victorious. "Watson, lend a hand would you?"

And god help me, I did. (Perhaps only because if anyone was going to give Holmes a kicking, it was going to be me.)

Being in the army, one learns a great many things not fit for polite society, but eminently suited to the rougher side of life. Swearing, innumerable card games, drinking - closely followed by parading whilst barrel-blinded - how to sleep anywhere at any time and wake in an instant, how to shoot, and of course, how to brawl. The latter I became quite proficient at.

Holmes himself possessed a fighting style I've only witnessed once or twice amongst Chinamen at the docks: he executed a bare-heeled kick to the orderly's chest that landed the man flat out and winded. I disposed of mine by taking his knee out with my cane – as an action it held less finesse, but it would make him think twice about following.

My flatmate grinned at me, eyes blazing with life, and hared off - no, not outside as I foolishly supposed, but further into the asylum - leaving me to follow, or not, as I chose. I followed, obviously, cursing his turn of speed verses the clumsiness of my leg. (I said it was getting better, I never claimed I could win a two hundred yard sprint through unmapped corridors.)

The reason for his urgency soon resolved itself. Behind a particular locked door (a 'hydrotherapy room' - or bleak bathhouse as we laymen might term it) Dr Tobias was about to douse a protesting, grey smocked and fragile young lady in an ice-bath. Holmes lost no time in remonstrating with the doctor (who was also, unsurprisingly, Mr Renton Priestly.) He didn't appear to require my assistance so I took it upon myself to aid the young lady (the much mistreated Amelia) and offer her the use of my coat. It was around this time that Lestrade and four of the Yard's best made an appearance, followed by an earnest-looking constable called Clarkey accompanying Miss Isobelle Charles on his arm.

And, rather like the final act of a melodrama, all the elements were brought together and resolved themselves into a satisfactory conclusion. The proof of Miss Charles' sanity and the Superintendent's villainy had been borne out by their behaviour. (Proving Holmes' sanity might have been more of a stretch, but he sidestepped all issues by announcing he was Sherlock Holmes, not Sheridan Hope; and with all that had transpired and the addition of Lestrade's dour presence, that was an end to the matter.)

Priestly/Tobias ('a rotter by trade' as Holmes commented with schoolboy humour) was taken into the Yard's custody. Miss Charles and her sister were reunited amidst torrents of emotion. And Holmes demanded to know if I'd brought his pipe.

_Exeunt omnes._

Holmes and I took a cab back to Baker Street as he was in no fit state for the train. He also was still barefoot, having shown no interest whatsoever in reclaiming his shoes.

He looked – given the circumstances – obscenely pleased with himself. I was still of half a mind to punch him, but found the anger hard to maintain beside his twined equanimity and exhaustion.

Keeping hold of a negative emotion over the course of several days or more is the most tiring thing; it is one of the reasons why the bereaved sleep so much. I've found that the body – ever efficient – when the surfeit of emotion has been held overlong will simply discard it at the first opportunity. So it was with my anger over Holmes. I'd passed days in tense anxiety and a further time in such an acidic rage I'm surprised my blood didn't transform to vitriol. But when faced with him, faced with an opportunity for setting forth my complaint at his behaviour, the anger deserted me. I satisfied myself with berating him in a more general manner for his disregard for his own health and personal liberty.

His wrists were bruised as was his cheek, something he explained as 'an altercation – trifling but necessary'. From his sallow complexion it was also clear he'd eaten little ('I disapproved of their culinary chemistry, old boy' – by which I take it the food was dosed.) I am morbidly curious to know how far is 'too far' in the successful attainment of one of his cases... but I doubt I would approve or care for the answer.

"You're feet are going blue," I pointed out.

"Most remiss of them."

"Why didn't you let us look for..."

"Because I know precisely where they are. Lawrence has my shoes. Emmy has my socks and waistcoat."

"That was _my_ waistcoat..."

"She was cold. The socks purchased information. The waistcoat was because I am a gentleman – I knew you'd do nothing less."

"Serves you right if you got frostbite."

Tired as he was he quickly wearied of my prying attention. "Stop fussing. You're such a bloody mother hen."

"Holmes..."

The cab turned a corner and he slid against me, collapsing against my shoulder with a softly huffed breath.

"You're an idiot," I told him, but couldn't keep the smile from my words.

(He heard it too because his lips curled slightly in acknowledgement although he didn't move. If anything he settled more solidly against me as if I was a bolster on a chaise lounge; his injured arm cradled against his chest much as it had been the night I stitched it.

"Holmes..." For a moment I considered hefting him upright again, but instead rested my arm across his shoulder and let him sleep.

And so I sat in the cab as it travelled North across the river and towards Marylebone, with my arm blanketing my flatmate as he used me as a pillow... And punching him (most assuredly what he deserved) was not in my thoughts. My thoughts were for Baker Street and the comfortable pandemonium that held court. For how much trouble Holmes had caused at Parkhouse – surely he'd caused a great deal? For company and not having to pay the rent on my own. For having done something worthwhile of measurable merit. And above all, for the dark-haired iconoclast currently curled against me who had managed to both batter senseless and reinvigorate facets of my character I'd thought lost to bullets, fever and cynicism. Which made him owed a bloody nose _and_ dinner.

I said the anger had left me. That did not of course mean that it was beyond being summoned back. In my relief and uplifted-spirits I had neglected to recall that my flatmate was the most vexing man I've ever encountered.

The peace lasted throughout our journey (although a sharp and unworthy thought whispers this is only because he was asleep, and even his powers of distemperment aren't great enough to effect one from Morpheus' kingdom.) Baker Street at last; Holmes pulled reserves of energy from somewhere, managing to be both pleased to see Mrs H whilst off-handedly rude at the same time and then to bound upstairs with a demand for tea and luncheon thrown carelessly over his shoulder. In the sitting room he made a beeline for his pipe but abandoned it in preference of his violin, settling the instrument against his shoulder with a small sigh of contentment. He raised the bow and played the beginning of a fugal piece before spiralling into something both disharmonic and horribly compelling.

I winced. "Holmes – what is that?"

There was a flash of devilry in his look before he canted his head to the side, his eyes focused on the middle distance above my left shoulder. "I perfected it at Parkhouse although I was unable to test it. Anti-aetherical scales in a minor key..."

And in that instance, all tranquillity vanished. Before I had thought about either the deed or the consequences I had closed the distance between us, knocked his violin from his grasp, and was forcing him to back the scant steps to the bookcase until we were toe to toe. The medical journals bruised against his spine as I held him pinned by the upper arms. He remained still, although I don't know if it was surprise or exhaustion that stopped him from breaking my hold.

_"I have endured being used, deceived, taken advantage of and played for a fool but if you mock me and what you've put me through then by god I will thrash you to within an inch of your life!"_ I have no notion whether it was a threat I could have carried out, but my feelings were sufficiently turbulent that the words were voiced without such considerations. I leant my head close to his, my words an angry hiss. "You made me believe you'd lost what scant reason you possess and sought your own destruction!" His gaze was bright and dark as polished jet, and with only an inch between us I fancied I could see the thoughts in his mind, calculating and recalculating with each additional piece of data like a Babbage Engine with limitless punch-cards. I pressed him harder against the bookcase to emphasise my point. _"Do you understand?"_ I lay my anger entirely at his door, but I was also disquieted by the depth of my own emotion. It sent a thrill of fear coursing through me when I thought of my world without Sherlock Holmes – and a second followed on its tail for entirely different reasons.

We held that tableaux for what seemed like forever - feeling each other shivering with ire, with fatigue, with I don't know what – as I stared at him and tried to convey what I no longer had the words for.

"I wasn't aware you'd be so affected," he said at length. His voice held a quiet note of contrition overlaying something else far harder to define. "A miscalculation on my behalf – it won't happen again."

The fear stilled in me, the anger drained, leaving a singularly strange mixture of relief and vexation. "You're bloody right it won't happen again. If you want to involve me in your exploits then you can involve me from the beginning or not at all. I'm not at your beck and call like some..."

Mrs H entered with a luncheon tray and appeared unsurprised at the scene which greeted her. "Doctor," she warned wryly, "if you do him injury you'll only be making work for yourself. Although some would say it was worth the effort," she muttered as she placed the tray down and swept towards the door. "I'll set some water boiling for the carbolic, shall I?"

Holmes and I exchanged a look; Mrs H's blithe manner did nothing but highlight how childish she felt we were being and her growing amusement at our expense. I cleared my throat, releasing my hold on his shoulders; Holmes fidgeted. "No, Mrs Hudson, that won't be necessary, thank you."

Holmes waited until the door was closed before giving in to petulance. Neither the mood nor the expression marred him for long however, he discarded both and turned his gaze to me with an open perspicacity that was as breathtaking as it was unnerving. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Nanny has spoken," he muttered with a significant look. His voice was such as it made me a welcome co-conspirator, one included and bound to his world when all others were locked from it. "Thankfully we were not so very bad as to be banished to bed without repast." So saying he picked up the tray, kicked over some books that were piled by the coal scuttle and balanced our meal atop the mess with a flourish.

I find myself in not so much of a hurry to rejoin the rest of humanity. I'd rather we stay here, eating luncheon on the floor like a pair of hopeless reprobates (I sprawled a-top a Turkish cushion whilst Holmes lounges across the tiger-skin rug Nero-like) perfectly content in each other's company. He steeples his fingers and speaks low, encouraging one to lean close. He tells me odd stories, snippets of his past designed to make me laugh – his gift and peace-offering. In turn I tell him of Afghanistan and find the sting of the memories lessened, a chapter of my life I am able to leave in peace at last; a weight I am no longer forced to carry.

No... I have no need for the rest of the world.

It would only disappoint me.

* * *

**And that my darlings, is the end. To all those who read it, I hope very much you enjoyed it.**

**To all those who read it and imagined scenes Watson didn't write about - tell me! **

**(So far something about thrashing Holmes with a slipper seems to be favourite, but I'm sure there are different ideas...)**

**Please send reviews and laudanum xx**


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